


Calming Storm

by ViazBell



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Maybe - Freeform, Post-Game, Vent-fic, minor pregame hc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 03:03:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14607843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViazBell/pseuds/ViazBell
Summary: Ah, It's raining, she dimly thinks.Sighing, the glass fogs slightly as she starts to think, stroking Akamatsu's hairpin.--Rainy day thoughts with your host, Himiko.





	Calming Storm

Curling up in her fuzzy thick blanket, Himiko slowly opens her eyes. Flickering them over to her rarely used alarm clock, she rolls over. Big bright and bolded red digital numbers still seared in her memory, never fading even as she lets her eyelids droop.

  


It’s three in the morning, a perfect time for her to catch up with her thoughts. The thoughts that she has desperately fled from, the same thoughts she used to distract herself from with magic and DANGANRONPA--

  
  


Breaking out into a cold sweat, she jumps out of bed and shudders.

The very same thoughts that she fears yet runs straight into. The type of thoughts that creep up on someone on nights like these, where the rain gently taps against the windows and the silence of the night dead, cold, and unforgiving.

  


Himiko has always been acquainted with such silence. All of her life, before during and after her biggest most awful most tragic event in her pitiful and meaningless life. She thinks it's kind of sad that her life has been marked only by a stupid game-show that romanticized death.

It’s even worse that she can’t even think of its name without her breath becoming shallower, or her palms getting sweaty, or instantly feeling the pain of her nails digging into her thighs.

She’s so tired, but too tired to sleep. Grabbing her blanket, she throws it over her shoulders like a cape and bends down to reach her treasure box under her bed. Her only pride and joy in this dingy rundown apartment. Cheap and discreet, and it shows. Though, really only the latter went into consideration when the three of them choose a place to live together.

  


A quiet place on the quiet side of town, away from the flashes of cameras and the borderline manic giggling of fans and the almost tangible sour acidity in the air and, and and--

  
  


Himiko digs her nails hard into her palms, almost hoping they bleed if only to get rid of the feeling of DANGANRONPA V3 looming over her, weighing down so heavily on her head that it flooded her thoughts when she least expected it.

 

On calm nights like these.

  
  


Dragging her box of wonders with her to the balcony-more-like-fire-escape window, she takes out a random item, then goes to tightly wrap her blanket around her.

 _Ah, It's raining_ , she dimly thinks.

Sighing, the glass fogs slightly as she starts to think, stroking Akamatsu’s hairpin.

Call it an endgame prize, as Shirogane might say, but Himiko decided to collect little trinkets from her classmates. She would call them friends, but she’s not so deluded to think of all of them that way. Not anymore.

  


Tonight, she rolls Akamatsu’s musical clip between her small and clumsy fingers, squeezing it when she remembers how it flew out of her hair as the fake pianist was swiftly ripped away from them. The hollow sound of it hitting the cold floor of the courtroom the only sound after the piano closed on her last performance.

  


She squeezes harder, trying to force out the intrusive images in her head.

 Like seeing Amami’s body curled up on the library floor, just like her’s used to when she slept, hidden by books.

  Like the horror on everyone's face when she proudly stood in front of the tank during her magic show, the same shock filling her own when she saw Hoshi turned into nothing but bones, and the sickening smack of similar bones hitting the ground while a childish and rainbow-colored dream covered the grueling and gory reality of Toujou’s demise.

  Like seeing both her friends, Angie and Tenko on the old wooden floors, calm and peaceful, just like Shinguji’s scythe-like smile before he was sent to a horrid execution, even for someone like him.

 

Pressing the clip harder into her hands until it hurt _hurt_ **_hurt_ ** , she didn’t want to think about how blue, wilted, and disgraceful Iruma’s death was, only for her memory to be flushed away as Gonta’s death was burned into their minds. Gonta, one of the only people who comforted her, who everyone was fond of, and who in turn was taken advantage of by Ouma of all people. Biting her lip, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the liar.

 

 A ragged and pitiful existence, born only to die from misplaced malice that stemmed from frustration and mistrust. Ouma, who died alone on a cold and unforgiving slab of metal, in cold and unforgiving silence. Momota, his killer, sent off with watery smiles and puffy eyes. Momota, who’s disfigured body slid out of a rocket, who’s body brought with it a sense of finality and dread that covered the room with the same silence as the hangar.

 

 Himiko takes a couple of deep breaths, shakily exhaling each time. She doesn’t even want to think about the sixth trial.

It wasn’t real, It wasn’t real, It _can’t_ be real. _It was all_ **_fiction_ ** _anyway_ \--

 Feeling her fingers feel heavy from numbness and a sharp pinch on her leg, she focuses on the rain and closes her eyes.

  


* * *

  
  
  


When she opens them again, she see’s Maki leaning against the window next to her, nodding off with an empty mug in her hands.

 

A tap on her right shoulder makes her turn to the right. Saihara, with his greasy looking hair, beat up smile and dark rings under his eyes holds a warm mug of hot chocolate with little cream out to her, for her, just the way she likes it. She takes the mug with the faintest of nods and a small grunt, but he gets the message of gratitude.

 

Sitting beside her, he sips from his own cup, looking out into the rain, the sky starting to get brighter. With the two of the beside her, Himiko understands that it's just one of those nights.

Dark and dreary, but perfect of hot cocoa, warm blankets, and company.

  


Blowing into the cup to cool the liquid down, she understands. She’s not the Himiko from before, in a quiet house silent from tension dripping off the walls, a shouting match just around the corner, outside of her room door.

 

 She’s not the girl entranced by Dangan Ronpa looking for an escape in its magical world. Yet, she's also not the deluded witch girl wannabe, trapped in a killing game and meagerly getting by hiding behind a hat, a fantasy, fiction, a _lie_.

  


She understands. She’s both, yet neither, something, _someone_ entirely new, molded by a death game of all things.

But that’s fine. It’s just who she is, and if it isn't really fine it will be, later.

 

Sighing, she sips her hot chocolate and flickers her eyes shut, blinded by the early morning rays.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ahh.. I relate to Himi-chan on a spiritual level one time..  
> Or, my excuse for ranting.  
> I literally had this idea at 3 am. I woke up in the middle of the night when this flash of inspo hit me.  
> Also,, characterization??  
> I only know how to write Himi-chan. help.


End file.
